Minutes to Midnight
by PointBlank3
Summary: John Winchester passes, leaving behind a perilous object to his son Dean. Once Dean discovers the true danger in the object he is thrust into a strange, lonely solitude. Things get worse when Dean becomes a target and hunters are on his trail.
1. Chapter 1

Minutes to Midnight

Prologue:

6 Months Ago 

A howl ruptured the still, night air - a lonely cry pushing through the silence, pleading for an answer that would not come. The soft light of the waning moon shed a sombre glow over the black pick-up as it made its way down the long, dirt road: tires crunching over the path as they hastily spat up gravel and dust. The truck slowed to a stop in front of a small, wooden house surrounded by chunks of metal and beat up car parts strewn unceremoniously about the yard. The air was sticky and suffocating, and a thick, sullen fog had gathered low to the ground, the grass and soil struggling to breath: drowning in a misery of which they could not escape.

The door slammed shut and a pair of well-worn shoes landed solidly in the dirt. After a small hesitation, they stepped forward in silence, muffled by the wet grass. All that could be seen of the man was a sharp outline created by the light of the moon. He was just over six feet and in his rough, callused hands he carried a small object, no bigger then a coin. It glistened in the moonlight before he quickly wrapped it in a red, silk cloth and placed it carefully in to one of his deep pockets.

The wind began to pick up as the mysterious man reached for the front door and lifted his hand to knock. But as his fist swung forward to collide with the wooden frame he realized that the door was already slightly ajar. He lowered his hand swiftly to his back pocket and pulled out a small gun, he held it out in front of him with two hands and nudged the door open. He waited. The door bumped softly against the inside wall and bounced forward again, swinging softly on its hinges. The man leaned forward slightly and his head turned as his eyes swept across the dimly lit room.

A soft click echoed in the man's ear as a gun was cocked and he could feel the thin mouth of the barrel pressing dangerously against the back of his head.

"Drop your weapon," A gruff voice said.

The pistol clattered noisily to the floor.

The man holding the rifle extended his foot and kicked the gun, sending it careening across the rough, wooden floor.

"Now, turn around, slowly," The voice continued.

Taking care not to make any sudden movements, the first man turned to face the second. There was a small silence and then both men erupted in immense laughter. Laughter that forced their mouths open wide and caused them to rock back and forth, their shoulders shuddering in merriment.

"John Winchester, are you trying to kill me!?" The man exclaimed. He lowered his gun, dropped it on a nearby table and headed towards the kitchen.

John chuckled and bent to pick up his fallen pistol.

"I believe you were the one with the gun, Bobby." He called through the house. John straightened up and followed Bobby in to the kitchen where he took a seat next to a huge stack of books. Memories he thought to be lost flooded back to him as he looked over the room. It had never really changed, the wood had begun to age but the house was still scattered with all kinds of books collected over the long years.

"Yeah, well, sorry about that." Bobby answered. "Can I get you a beer?"

"Do you have to ask?" Came the reply.

Bobby walked out of view and the clinking of beer bottles could be heard as he rummaged through the cabinets. He returned carrying a beer in each hand and a large grin slapped on his face.

"So, what's with the extra security?" asked John.

"Oh well, you know, I managed to hunt down a nest last week and I've been keeping watch in case anyone is looking for vengeance.

John nodded: he knew you had to take extra precautions when hunting the supernatural beings that could hold a grudge. He eased back in his chair and a heavy sigh escaped his lips. Bobby observed John: he looked tired almost, like he was carrying a huge burden on his shoulders. His beard was thick and tangled, his hair looked unwashed while his clothes gave off a musty smell. John took a long swig from his bottle as Bobby eyed him warily.

"Listen, it's great that you're here John, and I don't want this to come off the wrong way but the last time I saw you, you were knee deep in this demon business. What changed? Are you in some kind of trouble, do you need help?" Bobby said.

"Nothing like that Bobby, I'm still in the middle of this thing but I would never take you with me. No, this is something different." John sat up in his chair and the mood instantly became more serious, he looked Bobby straight in the eye. "Bobby, this is about _The_ _Telos,_" He finished ominously.

John watched as Bobby's eyes widened, fear flashed in his eyes and his mouth dropped open slightly. A small shiver made it's way quickly down Bobby's spine. Then he recovered and he took a deep drink of beer. _The Telos_? This was the last thing he had expected to hear when John Winchester had shown up at his door, and yet, he was not incredibly surprised. It seemed to him that when a Winchester was involved, there were no surprises.

"I thought it was only a myth, you're telling me that… that it's real?" Bobby whispered.

John leaned in, "Oh, it's real all right." He reached deep into his pockets, feeling the soft leather graze his hand as he pulled out his makeshift package and placed it delicately in the middle of the table.

Bobby stared intently at the small, silk cloth – almost as if he was willing it to move or glow or do something significant. His eyes flicked back up to meet John's: "This… this is it then?" he pointed at the red lump.

John nodded simply, "That's it."

Bobby reluctantly bent forward, carefully nudging the cloth with his finger until a thick, silver ring was unveiled. The faded silver glinted in the light from the hanging lamp above: the ring was extremely old. Bobby couldn't even make a guess at how long it had been around. He reached for it to get a closer look but John immediately pushed his hands away.

"You don't want to do that," He said.

Bobby didn't bother to ask why not, because after a few moments the details of the legend came back to him and he was astounded at his foolishness. The ring was a simple band covered with small scratches and on the outside, the metal had been worked to create strange symbols etched smoothly into the frame. There had always been speculation as to what the symbols represented but still, they remained unclear.

The wind outside rattled the window frame and Bobby jumped a little.

"You know the legend right?" asked John.

Bobby nodded.

"It's all true." John confirmed, almost light-heartedly, as if he could barely believe it himself.

Bobby took a deep breath and struggled to come up with the right words.

"Well then you are in trouble," Bobby decided. "I have no idea how I can help but whatever you need, just say the word. What are you doing with this thing anyway John, it could kill you."

John chuckled, "Don't worry Bobby, I knew what I was getting into when I took it. Now, I do need you to do something for me. I'm going after The Demon." John held up his hands to stop Bobby from protesting.

"You're not going to stop me," John continued. "I'm doing this no matter what you say. But there's a chance I won't make it and if I don't, I need you to give this to Dean." He nodded towards the lone object resting on the tabletop. "And this too," He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket addressed to Dean and tossed it next to the ring.

Bobby looked at John like he was insane. "No way!" He yelled. "You think I'm just going to dump this on Dean! He doesn't deserve this John, _you_ can't put this on him! Did you even think of the consequences? Dean won't know what the hell to do with this thing. What if he dies John, do you want that on you!?" Bobby's face was turning red and the veins in his forehead were pulsing in frustration.

John looked down, staring at his hands. "He can handle it." He said in a brusque, choked voice.

"And what if he can't, huh? What happens then?"

"Damn it, Bobby!" John stood up in his rage, sending his chair tumbling violently to the floor. "He's _my_ son, don't you think I know what the consequences are!? I _know _he doesn't deserve this, I _know_ he might not make it, but this thing has got to be protected!"

They were both standing now.

"So you're willing to sacrifice Dean's life for protecting this piece of junk?" Bobby exclaimed.

"Believe me Bobby, I don't like it. I _hate_ it. But someone has to do this, you know the cost if they don't. Now, I've put enough in it for a while, but it won't hold out forever." John referred to the ring. "If I'm not back for it in a month, promise me you'll give it to Dean as soon as possible."

There was a long silence, only interrupted by the sound of the rafters creaking under the pressure of the strong wind.

"Promise me," John repeated through gritted teeth. He stared at Bobby: his friend could not let him down, not when so much depended on this decision.

Bobby's mind was going a mile a minute, but eventually he came to the same conclusion as John. The safety of the many outweighed the danger for the one. Even if it _was _Dean.

"I promise," he answered reluctantly.

John heaved a deep sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxed and he leaned over to right his chair.

"Thank you," He said.

The legs scraped gently across the floor as he tucked the chair under the table, preparing to leave.

"You know, you could stay here for the night," offered Bobby.

"Thanks, but I have a lot of work to do," John replied as he made his way to the door. Bobby nodded and followed, the floor groaning each time his feet touched the ground.

John swung the door open sending a rush of cool wind into the warm cabin – flinging itself into any crack or corner. He stepped forward, the moon shining on his tall figure.

"Keep it safe," Was all he said before turning and slinking out of the moonlight and into the dark shadows that awaited.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

"Dean, hurry up a bit, will ya?" A young man holding a shotgun called urgently as he backed himself up against a tall, granite pillar.

"Dude, I'm going as fast as I can," The man named Dean yelled to his younger brother Sam.

Dean's jacket swept across the soil as he lifted himself with the ease of someone who had done it many times before – from the gaping pit below. Then, he swung himself around to crouch awkwardly over the hole filled with piles of dirt, a few scuttling bugs and, oh yeah, _a body. _But to be fair, there really wasn't much of the body left. A few decaying bones lay side by side along with some abandoned pieces of rotted cloth that clung – like a trapped fly struggling in a spider web – to the crumbling ribs of the skeleton. The black holes, where the eyes of the skull should have been, stared blankly up at the scene above.

A large, black bag sat propped up against a rock beside the grave. Dean unzipped one of the pockets, pulling out a white, unmarked bottle containing small, white grains. The grass was wet and he could feel the cool water seeping through the fabric of his jeans as he kneeled at the edge of the pit. Reaching out, he turned the container upside down, spreading salt evenly over the length of the grave.

The sound of the shotgun exploded in to the night and barrelled through the graveyard to the nearby forest – rising up through the tress and spooking the birds and squirrels back into their hiding places. Sam felt the gun recoil in to his shoulder as the gun backfired. He held the gun in both hands and stood firmly on the ground, watching as the man in front of him flickered – like static from the television – and then continued forward with a thick scowl on his face. Another shot rang out but just as before, the spirit only flicked before starting again. Sam took a step back and felt the cold, hard stone of the pillar press against his back, _nowhere to go. _Unable to dampen the spirit's advance, Sam brought the gun to his side and took a deep breath, calling to his partner yet again.

"Dean!"

Dean picked up the pace: he unzipped the bag quickly, pulling out another bottle and fiddling with the cap. The moonlight crawled its way into the container to reveal a dark liquid swirling gently with in. With no time for pleasantries now, he lifted the bottle and swung it violently over the grave, splashing the fluid erratically over the bones. His arm thrashed wildly, even frantically, as he hurried to complete the routine process.

The man inched towards him, and then in one quick motion his hands lifted, reaching forward and snapping Sam's head back so that it collided with the hard stone of the pillar. He could feel the cold, dead hands wrapped tightly around his neck, pushing aggressively until his lungs were devoid of sweet air. His eyes began to tear and his vision blurred as he watched the corners of the man's mouth curl upwards into a sadistic smile. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead, plastering his thick, brown hair to his soft skin. He willed the pain away, and then suddenly, it was gone. The graveyard began to dissipate – the picture, slowly leaving his eyes – replaced instead with a peaceful, welcoming emptiness.

A sickening silence filled the yard as the sounds of Sam's protests disappeared. Dean's heart began to race and his stomach lurched, '_Why couldn't he hear Sam anymore?'_ He drew a match from his pocket and struck it, the flame mirrored in his concerned eyes. Dean tossed it into the grave and watched as it fell – flipping through the air, igniting on contact with the lighter fluid. He didn't stay to watch as the skeleton blazed, leaving only charred remnants of the man who was buried there. Instead, he got to his feet and turned just in time to see the dazzling sight that met his eyes.

At first, he had no idea what he was seeing. As Dean stared he was only able to make out the hand clasped tightly around his younger brother's neck, Sammy's head lay motionless, resting on his shoulders. But as Dean watched, the hand holding Sam's neck recoiled as if it had been unexpectedly burnt. With nothing to support him, Sam's body fell limp to the ground. A small light began to radiate from inside the spirit, pouring out from the centre to encompass its entire body. And then it was exuding a brilliant, almost blinding light. Dean covered his eyes with his hands and squinted as the spirit vanished in a final burst of flame.

"Sam!" He yelled, his feet crunching on small sticks and leaves as he ran to his little brother.

It felt as if a lead brick had settled in his stomach. His insides seemed to be ripping through him and a roar was hovering in his chest, waiting to be let loose. The wind brought the scent of sulphur brushing past his nose - as if the spirit were taunting him, satisfied with what it had done.

He leaned over, holding Sam's face in his hands. He didn't look good: his eyes were shut and his face was extremely pale.

"C'mon Sammy," Dean said desperately, lightly smacking Sam's cheeks in an effort to wake him up. He lowered his hand to Sam's wrist and checked for a pulse. _Nothing_. He sucked in his breath and the wind brought an icy chill down his spine (Was it the wind making him shiver?) _Thump_. He heard rather than felt the air escape his lips in a deep sigh of relief and then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"C'mon now, wake up!" Dean choked. He gently pushed Sam's hair off of his face. _'You can't leave me, not now, not with Dad gone too.' _He felt his breath catch in his chest – almost as though if Sam couldn't breath, he shouldn't be able to either.

A few more agonising seconds passed before Sam let loose a dry, hollow cough. He groaned and his eyes fluttered open uncovering his tender brown irises. Dean bowed his head in a quick, silent prayer (something he would never tell Sam about) and laughed with reprieve as he leaned in, supporting Sam with his shoulder. Together they stood up, Dean stumbling a little under Sam's weight.

"You okay?" questioned Dean.

Sam nodded as he rubbed the back of his head and they continued to walk slowly towards the car – Sam gaining new strength with every step. As they passed the grave Dean swiped his hand down and his fingers caught under the straps of his black bag, he hoisted it into the air and over his back.

The Impala acted as their guidepost, glinting in the moonlight – like an old friend waving to them in the darkness – beckoning them forward to a safe place. As Sam carefully climbed into the passenger seat (he was still a little tender,) Dean walked to the rear of the car, flinging the bag haphazardly into the open trunk. He had to pause for a minute as a huge wave of gratitude washed over him – he didn't know what he would have done if he had lost Sam. He sniffed and swung the trunk shut. Then, whipping out a smile he made his way to the front of the car, sinking into the drivers seat.

"Dude, I can't believe you let that hippy take you out," Dean said, appalled.

"Well maybe if you had gone faster…" retorted Sam.

"You're the one that said you could handle him," Dean replied, holding up his hands in innocence.

"Just drive."

Dean chuckled and turned the key, the engine flaring. He flicked a switch and the radio hummed softly, playing a familiar tune. The sun was rising just behind the trees and a comforting rumble filled the Impala as he pressed on the gas pedal and pulled away from the yard.

_I finally see the dawn arrivin'  
I see beyond the road Im drivin'  
Far away and left behind_

The lone streetlamp shone down to the dark asphalt, trying its hardest to penetrate the cool surface but to no avail. The low sound of traffic on the outskerts of town was carried through the streets to the parking lot of the Barge Motel. The same motel where the Impala had just (only seconds before) pulled into a parking space. The engine died with a small purr – sounding a little tired but pleased with what it had accomplished that day.

Dean placed his hand on the roof of the car and pulled himself up from his seat. He eyed Sam mischieviously as he swung the door shut, a small smile on his face. He began walking towards the nearest room (wooden door with a miniture ship wheel nailed to the surface.)

"You sure your head's alright," Dean asked, his voice flushed with mock sympathy. "Because man, he _really_ got you."

"You just won't let it go will you?" said Sam, with indignation.

Dean stopped in his tracks, hiding all humour from his face. A little confused, Sam stopped to stare at him.

"Okay," He said, now that he had Sam's attention. "Am I spinning?"

Sam scrunched up his eyes, a little puzzled, but then as Dean struggled to keep a straight face, it dawned on him and he narrowed his eyes, "Dude, enough."

"All right, All right" Dean replied, looking downtrodden. Then he perked up a bit, "Just tell me this, how many fingers am I holding up?" He shoved four fingers in Sam's face and waggled them. He snorted as Sam jumped back and then proceeded to swat the air, smacking his hand away.

Sam eyed him with a warning in his eye. Dean quickly held up his hands in complete innocence, "That was it, I swear." He didn't want to cross a line.

Dean stepped over the small, yellow painted curb and pulled the keys to the motel room from his pocket (a white key attached to a small key chain made to look like a life preserver.) _God, this place was pansy._

The door unlocked with a small click and he pushed it open, following its motion and walking in to the room. This particular motel room was like no place they had ever stayed in before. First of all, there were matching Captains hats lying on each of the nightstands with a small note encouraging you to _take 'em for a spin, if you're feeling fun!_ Second, both the curtains and comforters sported a very 'interesting' design (fish, dolphins and killer whales all swimming in a revolting blue-ish grey colour.)Dean tried to ignore the seashells – apparently some hellish form of decoration – spread haphazardly around the room, along with the cabin lanterns hooked carefully to the wall. The final touch was the fantastically tacky wooden paneling that enveloped the entire room – creating the feeling that you were trapped, confined to this small, deplorable space.

Dean entered the room – his boots padding lightly across the carpet – and sunk in to the nearest chair.

He was exhausted.

He propped his feet up on the chair beside him and crossed his arms behind his head, yawning, "So, we excorisized ol' Sally last week, then there was Chuck Hanson, and since our favourite flower child's just been wasted, what next?" He clapped his hands together eagerly.

Sam collapsed fervently on one of the double beds, "We _just _finished a job Dean. You're seriously already looking for something new to hunt?"

"Yeah well, I've got a good thing going and I wanna run with it," he answered.

Sam sighed, throwing in the towel, "Fine, but tomorrow we're stopping by The Roadhouse, we can say hello and maybe they'll have _a case we can work._"

Dean raised his eyebrows at Sam's accidental reference to a 'lady of the evening.'

Sam winced, "That sounded dirty didn't it?"

Dean just laughed and walked to the second bed. He stripped down to his boxers and dived under the covers – tossing and flipping until he found a comfortable position and the sheets were all screwed up. Dean flicked off the light before Sam even had time to move from his spot at the end of his bed. Sam didn't mind though, he just got ready in the dark and flopped down on his own mattress.

"So tomorrow? Roadhouse?" asked Sam.

Dean grunted in reply and rolled over, already half asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2

"So then Lucas says, 'fine, I will!' and he drops his pants right then and there!"

"No!" She yelled in awe and totally disbelief.

"Yeah!" Her father hollered, clapping his hands and throwing back his head to laugh jovially.

She laughed just the same as him. Her whole body shaking with mirth as tears – like dew on the surface of a single blade of grass – began to form in the corner of her eyes. She was having trouble breathing but finally sighed – the laughing fit seemed to have passed. Her father continued to smile, pearly whites flashing.

"You want another?" He asked indicating to the empty beer bottle she still had clutched in her hands.

"Sure," she nodded with appreciation.

She watched for a while as her father made his way through the crowd, he pushed gently past a few bystanders and called happily to several friends across the room. She was amazed at how many people seemed to know her dad so personally and yet, she hadn't met them once in her 23 years of life. I mean, sure, she was close with Ellen and Jo, maybe even a few others, but even now as she watched her dad chat with a tall, grizzly man at the counter, she realized she had no idea who he was.

She turned her attention to the rest of the room. Her soft, brown eyes sweeping over the scene, taking in the sights and smells of the bar. Over in the corner she could hear the bleeps and bangs coming from the shotgun arcade game where a man in his 40s stood shouting colourful words at the screen. She chuckled quietly, she knew Jo could have beaten him with just one hand. She remembered a day back when she was 13 when Jo had spent a whole afternoon trying to teach her how to beat the game. Of course, no luck, she was hopeless when it came to video games. She caught the eye of a young man sitting in the shadows, a cigarette hovering lazily on the edge of his lips. Quickly she looked away, not wanting the attention of a stranger – that fleeting connection, the brief meeting of eyes, could always be dangerous around here. The smoke wafted in tendrils up the walls to rest delicately near the ceiling. The jukebox played an old, familiar tune and her fingers rapped instinctively against the splintered wood of the table.

Her glance turned instead, to the direction of the window next to her, where a refreshing breeze played gently across her face, blowing her hair back slightly. Smiling, she caught the sight of her reflection in the open window, her long, blonde hair framing the delicate features of her face. She had clear skin and a small, "button" nose as her dad used to say. But as her eyes met the ones in the mirror her smile faded. She was the spitting image of her mother, a slight, beautiful woman who could light up the room upon entrance.

Staring off into the distance, a wave of grief hit her, splashing through her body like the tide, crashing angrily against the shore. She was amazed at how it seemed that only the little things would come back to her. Small memories like when her mom used to brush her hair on the cement steps of the porch as they gazed out at the stars and talked about the silliest things. She missed having a woman to talk too. Her Dad had been incredible, but he wasn't always the most stable person. She could tell that he was still broken up over her mom's death. He was more reckless then usual on hunts, he stayed out a little too late in the bar, and sometimes, when he thought she wasn't paying attention he would just stare at her, taking in her elegant features that were so akin to her mothers.

She was quickly jolted out of her thoughts by the sound of an old engine coming around the bend in the road. It was a sleek black, kind of hard to make out in the dim light but its harsh headlamps penetrated the darkness and flooded the parking lot with its' twin beams. It pulled to a smooth stop, parked rather haphazardly in the space provided. She watched intently as a tall, young man climbed out of the drivers seat and gently pushed the door close with a squeak. He rested his arms on the car and leaned up against it to where he chatted, seemingly to no one. She was actually quite amused until finally she saw another men pull himself out of the car. _Whoa, _if she thought the first guy had been tall, he was nothing compared to the second guy. She couldn't hear what they were saying but the first one seemed a little agitated, his hands flailing in animated hand gestures.

"Marina?" she heard her name called from behind her. It was her dad.

"You're back!" she said, taking the cold beer from his hand, a twinkle returning to her eyes. "I was just watching these two, they're rather funny." She gestured out the window. Her father leaned out just in time to glimpse the first guy bending down and smacking his head on the rear view mirror.

"Must be loaded," her father shrugged.

Hearing her father's bluntness instigated a small rupture of laughter that burst unwillingly from her lips.

"What?" her father chortled, his daughter's laugh was contagious.

"Why do you assume their drunk, you never look at the other options. Did you ever stop to think that maybe they're just really _stupid_?" she joked.

"Glad to see you're so optimistic." He said sarcastically.

"And don't you forget it," she smiled and lifted her glass to a toast.

Just then, the grizzly fellow her father had been talking to earlier sauntered over to their table and said hello.

"Oh, Matt, this is my daughter, Marina. Marina this is Matt Sorren." Her father introduced her.

"Hi," she said, holding out a hand, "It's nice to meet you."

"And so polite too," he said to her father in a voice that matched his appearance. "Nice ter meet you too, I've heard so much about you." He smiled.

She smiled, slightly embarrassed and started, "Well, I'll let you two talk." Her dad gave her an apologetic look as she got up from the table. She smiled reassuringly and left, heading towards the woman's washroom.

Marina was a little shy, but confident in herself, even wily at times. She could play games, if she had to, she just preferred not to. So when the faint smell of leather filled her nostrils and the husky voice of one, Dean Winchester reached her ears, she knew a little better.

"Excuse me," he started, smooth as silk. "Could you _please_ tell my _younger_ brother here that _Metallica_ is _so_ much better than any of that bluegrass crap?"

She turned around and smiled politely, watching as the shorter man from outside sucked in his breath, loving the picture in front of him. She had to admit that both men were rather handsome, even if, (judging from before) a little dimwitted.

"Dea – what? Bluegrass? I don't even like – " The taller one started but was soon cut off by his brother.

"Oh, he's a little ashamed." He smiled, suggesting how painfully juvenile it was for his brother to be embarrassed of his music stylings.

The tall one shifted on his feet, looking rather uncomfortable in the situation. Attempting to make the younger one a little more at ease she decided to change the subject, "I'm Marina, it's nice to meet you…"

"Dean, and this is Sammy," Dean smiled jovially.

"Just… Sam, actually." He corrected, casting an annoyed look in Dean's direction. Then he turned and stretched out an enormous hand. She took it and then let her arm fall to her side, a silence quickly filling the space. She felt as if she couldn't just leave, and so instead she cast around for a topic.

Finally, settling on the only thing she could think of she asked tentatively, "So… how's your head?"

A blank expression streamed across Dean's face and then, "Oh, you mean this?" he gestured to his forehead where a bruise had already formed. "Just had a run-in with this big fella, you might have seen him leave? Hairy guy, covered in tattoos. Not a big deal though, he got what was coming to him."

She giggled, "Oh! You must be talking about Earl!" She had pulled the name from nowhere, now was the time for games.

"That's it!" Dean grasped the name and held on tight like a dog to a chew toy. "Bit of a rough one, eh?"

"Definitely. I wouldn't try anything with him again, you must've got lucky."

Dean looked utterly appalled that she would assume he only _got lucky _(and not in the good sense either.) He could hold his own, and he wasn't about to let her think he couldn't.

Marina could see the clogs turning behind Dean's eyes. She eyed him carefully, waiting patiently for the next line to come.

"Oh, he had some good punches but I wouldn't say he was all that. Nothing I couldn't handle anyways." He said smugly.

She shrugged nonchalantly, giving nothing away.

"Well, at least you have a good story. Not 15 minutes ago, I saw this man outside, I think he bent over to tie his shoe… smacked his head right on his rear-view. Poor guy, must not've been the brightest," She tutted. "If you'll excuse me boys?" Marina nodded towards the washroom.

"Umm… of course," said Dean as the colour drained from his face. "No problem."

She smiled inwardly but then immediately felt guilty for having played the small trick on him. _Well, _she thought, _ya gotta get your kicks somewhere._

Sam snorted, clapping his brother on the back, and grabbing his shoulder to steer him in the direction of the bar. He could hear the small clink of glasses and soon enough, the familiar face of Ellen Harvelle came into sight. The way her long, sandy blond hair fell haphazardly to her shoulders reminded Sam strangely of a lion. And Sam thought that matched her perfectly. Ellen was always such a fighter: much like a hunter (even though he'd never tell her that) she had that fierce exterior. The tough as nails persona, coupled with subtle intelligence – meaning she didn't flaunt her abilities, making others believe she didn't have any. But that was their mistake, and they wouldn't realize it until there was no chance in hell they could do anything about it. Then again, he saw the way she was with Jo, Ellen definitely had a softer side to her as well – something else she didn't want others to know.

Sam pulled a stool out from under the counter with a smile and sat, placing his hands in front of him like a small child sitting obediently in his desk at school. Dean settled in next to him but he was a little distracted by the low cut shirt and denim short shorts sitting 3 seats over.

"Ellen!" Sam called, dragging out the letters in a sort of singsong voice, highlighting his soft accent.

Ellen glanced up from the glass she'd been cleaning and her face split into a wide grin, "Well if it isn't the Winchester boys," she smiled. "What brings you to this fine establishment?"

"We just thought we'd come say hello," Sam replied.

"And we're looking for a gig," interjected Dean, eyes on the prize.

Sam spat another dirty look in Dean's direction and an apologetic one to Ellen.

And always the oblivious, "Oh, and would you mind if we stayed the night?" Dean added. Barely glancing at Ellen before he turned back, his eyes lingering hungrily on the denim short shorts.

Sam's lifted his hands from the table and let out a huff of exasperation; he'd been going for the more, indirect (and polite) approach. Something Dean had never accepted. He preferred to be point blank with his intentions, no beating around the bush.

Ellen looked a little taken aback at first and she grabbed an old rag from the counter to wipe her hands with. "Well, you can stay as long as you like but I don't have a job for ya. Gave the last one to that fella' right there." She nodded at the back of a tall man who was chatting with a surly – almost grizzly looking man.

That caught Dean's attention. His eyes wandered threateningly over to take a look at the guy.

"That old man?" He said. "C'mon Ellen, we could do better then him. Just give us a hint." Dean flashed a smile that would have persuaded even the most stubborn woman.

But Ellen held her ground, she wasn't even fazed – far from it actually, she snorted.

"You think so, do you?" She said, resting the damp cloth on the table and walking off.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3:

The sun had yet to make an appearance in the cold, dark sky that stretched, never-ending past the parking lot. But finally, as it's golden rays crept past the horizon, they created a small light, revealing only parts of the blue sky that was to last all day long. And as the sun woke up, so did Chris Cooper.

He woke up slowly. First, he rubbed his eyes groggily and rolled over on to his stomach, desperate for sleep to take him again. But he was forced to accept that once he was awake, he was awake for good. A small pang in his forehead reminded him of last night and he reached blindly on the nightstand for some Aspirin. A small groan escaped his lips and he slowly stood up, pulling on a pair of blue jeans and a grey T with an oversized black jacket.

He reached for the doorknob but stopped, and his eyes flickered back to his daughter as they always did; she lay peacefully, he hair strewn lazily across the pillow and her chest rising heavily in her deep slumber. A small smile twinkled for a short second on his face, then it was gone and he could feel a cold rising deep in _his _chest as the painful memory of his late wife came to him. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her. The tears streaming down her beautiful, silken face. The blood smeared roughly across her body. It was something he was never going to forget, but as he stood staring at his child he found a glimmer of hope, struggling to reach the surface.

A smile returned to his face as he headed out the door to find Ellen Harvelle already waiting for him.

"Gah!" She had surprised him. "Geez woman, what the hell are you trying to do to me?"

"You've got to keep on your A game! What kind of hunter are you Christopher?" Marvelled Ellen.

"A tired one," he answered, slightly irritated.

"A coffee then?" she suggested.

He cheered up, "Make that two. I'm sure Marina will be out here any minute, she always was an early riser." He was secretly hoping that Marina would enter the room at this very moment and he even stole a glance at the door – trying to manipulate it with his mind. He didn't want to be alone with Ellen for too long, he knew what was coming; he had been expecting it ever since he showed up. And it was something he was not looking forward to.

After tearing his lingering eyes away from the wooden door, he watched as Ellen put a pot of coffee on and pulled a rag from the bottom shelf. She grabbed an already clean glass from another shelf and began flipping the cloth back and forth, rubbing away dirt that wasn't there. He knew this habit, Ellen was nervous about something, something which he himself, was trying to prevent from happening.

Ellen coughed softly and then looked him square in the eye – always one to face a battle head on, "How you been holdin' up?" A look of concern had leaked into those hardened, brown eyes and he shifted in his seat before answering. But, not one to back down he matched her gaze and answered.

"I'm fine," he replied – strongly. The kind of 'I'm fine' that was laced with a deep emotion, something that was supposed to let others know that this is when you backed off, changed the subject and suddenly became intensely interested with that spot on your shoe.

Apparently Ellen never got that memo.

"You sure Chris…? I've been really worried about you and Marina lately, I'm glad you showed up the other day."

"Ellen," he dragged the letters out and his deep, rumble of a voice became softer. "There's nothing to worry about, okay?"

A small but meaningful look past between old friends and she seemed to get the message. Ellen heaved a deep sigh; "If you say so…" she trailed off.

He smiled, "I do."

Just then Marina busted through the door wearing light, blue jeans, a white t-shirt and a worn baseball cap (tan and brown.) The mood instantly got lighter as she stretched out her arms and yawned widely.

"Mornin' Ellen" she smiled. The sun reflected gloriously off her long, blond locks of hair as she gently pulled up a stool on the right of her father.

Her dad looked offended, "No greeting for me!?"

"You don't deserve one," she huffed. "Staying up all night… but… I guess you're paying for it now," she sniggered.

"You're damn right I am," he said taking the coffee mug Ellen just handed him and gripping it with and iron fist.

Ellen managed to scour up some cereal and Marina grabbed a huge bowl and filled it to the brim. Then, she pulled out her ipod and was lost to the world – casually bobbing her head and downing the quickly drowning Cheerio's.

The Roadhouse had a warm, inviting feeling to it. The sunlight was pouring through the windows lighting up the soft, wooden bar and tables. Chris took a deep sip from his coffee mug and sighed. These were the times when he felt he'd be okay with out hunting. He knew that eventually he'd get too old to hunt, and he dreaded it, but it was times like these where he figured it might not be so bad. But hunting was imprinted in his soul and he'd be damned if he gave it up before he had to.

He pulled the file Ellen had given him out of his pocket and rested it on the table, opening to the first page.

"What d'you got there?" Marina half yelled – ignorant to how loud she was speaking.

He started mouthing words mutely.

"What!?" she yelled in imitation of an old lady screaming for volume. She laughed and pulled a headphone from her ear to listen as her dad explained the basis of the hunt to her. He finished talking and she nodded, plugging in her ear buds and preparing for another attack on a second bowl of cereal.

Chris returned to drinking his coffee and reading the case file, he didn't even jump when the door on the far right of the bar burst open and two young men filed out.

"Why are we up this early!?" the shorter one exclaimed.

"Dean, you said you wanted to find a job," whispered Sam, noticing the two people sitting at the bar- the older man staring curiously at them.

"And _you _said we were taking a little break! Dropping by The Roadhouse to say hello! We don't have to say hello at…" he glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and his jaw dropped. "…5 in the morning!? Are you nuts!?"

Sam grabbed Dean by the shoulder and spun him around quickly. He nodded in the direction of the bar, "Keep it down, Ellen has company." He urged.

Dean took a look but seemed to not even notice the two people; instead he spotted something else, evidently more intriguing. His eyebrows climbed and his shoulders seemed to loosen up.

Coffee.

Chris watched as the young man left his humiliated brother behind and leapt forward to grab the nearest cup.

"Hope you don't mind." Dean said taking a sip. He was still a little peeved about losing the hunt to this old fogy.

Chris smiled, immediately taking a shine to this guy. He might have been a little dim-witted (judging from last night) but other then that, he reminded Chris a little bit of himself. He had a take charge, in your face, devil may care attitude that made it blatantly obvious he was a hunter.

"No, no problem at all." Chris smiled. He watched as the young man settled himself in the bar stool next to his daughter. He almost laughed out loud at how oblivious she was.

"I'm Chris," he reached around his daughter. (That got her attention.) This on here, he pointed, is Marina.

"Dean," he nodded. "This is Sam."

_Dean… Sam…_ their names rolled around his tongue like an old gun he'd thrown in the closet long ago and found again, years later. The feeling flitted by in a moment and then he'd forgotten.

"You boys are hunters aren't you?"

"Not at this ungodly hour," responded Dean.

Marina glanced up to say a small Hello but then at sound of her phone – and Dean's displeasure – she politely excused herself. She walked with a spring in her step, still bobbing her head to the tracks playing sweetly on her ipod.

The other man named Sam came to sit next to his brother and Ellen chatted with him while Dean relished his coffee.

Something about the dusky, leather look that Dean had reminded him of someone else, someone he hadn't seen in a while, someone who lit a spark in him and drove him to the point of recklessness…

"Dean…" he said, under his breath as if he was trying to remember. Dean's eyes rose from the hot, wonderfully liquid. Chris continued, "You're a Winchester?"

- - - - - -- - -- - - - - - - -- -

The door snapped shut and she sat on the end of her unmade bed. She glanced at the caller ID flashing on her phone and stopped. Slowly, she lifted her arm to pull the headphone from her ear. The cool sounds of Linkin Park repeated itself as the phone vibrated in her hand. She stared curiously at the phone – like she was expecting it to grow legs and walk away. She shook herself and flipped the phone open.

"Caleb?"

"Marina," he sighed.

She became frantic.

"Where are you? I haven't heard from you in weeks! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Don't worry, I'm fine." He replied, slightly out of breath.

"What's wrong?" asked Marina.

"Nothing, it's fine. Look, there's something very important I gotta tell ya, alright?"

"Sure," her breath was shaky.

"You can't tell Dad though, ok?"

"Come on! You know I can't keep anything from Dad."

He teased. "Hmm… then I guess I can't – "

"Fine! I swear I won't say anything…" She gave in.

"…"

"So what is it?" she asked.

"…"

"Caleb, what's so important?"

"…"

"Caleb?"

Click.

The line was dead. She almost tore her hair out in frustration, but instead, she settled for kicking the nearest chest of drawers. Big mistake. It hurt like a mother. It'd been three months since her brother last called, the gaps between calls getting larger and larger. Each one seemed to end with the click of the dial tone. She wasn't worried. Her brother was plenty capable in the hunting world. But she _was_ annoyed.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dean's jaw jutted forward and he looked puzzled. Sam hadn't noticed and continued to chat animatedly with Ellen.

He nodded. "Do I know you…?" The words came out slowly and his eyebrows furrowed as he studied the man's features more closely, trying to remember who he was.

"I… don't…maybe!" Chris replied. "Last name Cooper?"

Dean didn't even hesitate. "_The _Chris Cooper!?" He stood up as he yelled it and practically tripped over himself holding out his hand for a second handshake. His eyes were lit up and an awed expression seemed to be fixed on his face.

"Sam!" he couldn't believe it. "This guy is _Chris Cooper!_"

Sam looked uncomfortable and confused, but he stood up anyways and held out his hand, "Nice to meet you," he said kindly.

Dean watched his brother and his expression changed.

"Dude, this is _Chris Cooper_," He stretched out the syllables like he was talking to an idiot. "Don't tell me you forget the stories!" Dean turned to Chris and gave him a thousand watt smile. Clearly, he'd been expected Sam to say something along the lines of "_Oh, those stories!"_ but when nothing came he was shocked,

"You forget!?" gasped Dean.

Sam shifted uncomfortably and a guilty expression crawled on to his face.

"This is the man who single handedly snuffed out five black dogs, took out a truck full of vampires with a jar of dead mans blood and a steak knife, _and_ survived a werewolf ambush!" exclaimed Dean.

Chris flinched at the last one but then his face twisted into a modest smile. Something noted by Sam.

Dean just turned to smile at a now standing Chris.

"Actually, I did have some help on that last one," Chris said.

But Dean didn't care; he just couldn't remove that idiot grin from his face. The man could have told him to dress up in a clown costume and dance around to Brittany Spears, and Dean would've jumped at the chance.

Chris smiled affectionately, he liked this kid.

Meanwhile, Marina pocketed her phone with a troubled look and headed back towards the door. She decided not to mention the phone call to her father, he knew Caleb and him didn't get along well and she didn't want him to worry.

She pushed through the door to find all three men standing in front of the bar. Her first thought was that they were fighting but then she saw Dean's huge smile.

She laughed loudly, "What are you all doing?"

Her father turned to her with a grin matching Dean's, "I found some Winchester's!" The name washed over her like a cool glass of lemonade on a hot summer day.

_She was sitting on a large picnic table, the crickets chirped loudly and the blades of grass underneath her feet tickled her toes. Her mother and brother were away visiting her aunt and she had chosen to stay with her father. But when her Dad was called away on an emergency hunt, she was the left in the care of one, John Winchester. _

"_Don't worry, I won't be long sweetie. John here is my best friend, he'll look after you," he had said. _

_Now she sat at the picnic table crying. Her warm tears stained her cheeks as she looked out into the night that blanketed her back yard. Mr. Winchester came out the sliding door holding a large, wooden weapon. Her tears forgotten, she climbed up out of her seat and walked across the grass._

"_What's that?" she asked curiously._

"_This is a crossbow," he replied. "And I'm going to teach you how to use it."_

_She smiled and laughed as he made a game of it. He said that someday, she was going to be a hunter and she'd have to know how to use this if she wanted to be just like her Daddy. _

_She giggled and eagerly grabbed for the bow, struggling under the weight of the object. _

_John laughed as he watched the small hands wrap around the weapon and fire it nowhere near the little target he'd set up. Eventually, with a little practice, she'd fired it around the second ring of the target and she'd cheered and danced while he smiled and applauded._

_After they'd finished, he clapped a hand on her shoulder and chuckled, "Now, don't tell your Dad about this, he'd kill me if he knew you were handling weapons."_

A smile ignited quickly on her face, "Sam and Dean, right?"

Sam nodded.

"Will you all stop smiling so much?" Ellen shuddered. "It's giving me the willies."

Everyone laughed and returned to their stools. Dean took another sip of coffee and chatted for a while before his attention returned to the case file lying on the table. Chris saw what Dean was looking at and their eyes met.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Chris asked.

Dean grinned.


End file.
